


Under Your Wing

by Janice_Lester



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blood and Torture, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-30
Updated: 2011-05-30
Packaged: 2018-02-26 08:11:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2644526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Janice_Lester/pseuds/Janice_Lester
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam and Dean pick up the pieces after Castiel gets beaten up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Under Your Wing

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [](http://-bluebells.livejournal.com/profile)[**_bluebells**](http://-bluebells.livejournal.com/), who [wanted hurt/comfort](http://users.livejournal.com/_bluebells/49138.html?thread=497650#t497650) for round four of the Five Acts Meme. Wingfic. Includes the aftermath of violence/torture, though not in overly graphic detail. Possibly heads schmooopwards towards the end. Beta'd by [](http://ellethill.livejournal.com/profile)[ellethill](http://ellethill.livejournal.com/).

In the dream, Cas speaks calmly and quietly and with that familiar growl, and yet Dean keeps turning around, cocking his head, because somewhere, somewhere he’s sure he can hear Castiel screaming, a sound part human agony and part shrieking electronics.

Cas repeats the address once more, and Dean struggles to commit it to memory when all he wants to do is press his hands over his ears to blot out the sound he can’t actually hear and yet can’t seem to ignore. “I need you,” Cas says. “Please, come soon.” And then he’s gone, and Dean is left in the ringing silence of his own head for several moments before he jolts awake to the different silence of a motel on a busy street with his enormous kid brother snoring on the other bed.

Dean clears his throat. “Wake up, Sambo, we gotta roll.”

Sam groans and pulls the covers up over his head.

That’s about how Dean feels, but the memory of dream-Cas not-screaming is pretty fucking motivating. He kicks off the covers, sits up, reaches for his boots.

***

They follow Cas’s directions to an old abandoned warehouse and, oh, fuck, Dean hopes this isn’t like old times. He’s got nothing against Jimmy Novak, but when you need Castiel you need _Castiel_ , not some dude who happens to look like him. They take separate paths through the aisles and alleys of old pallets and junk, flashlights held high, searching.

It’s Sam who finds Cas. Dean thinks that maybe, later on, he’ll be grateful for that. Right now he’s too busy trying to fight the roiling panic in his stomach.

Cas is pinned to a wall, his feet dangling a yard off the ground. Pinned like a butterfly. By the wings. Two pins, each a couple of feet from his drooping head. His upper body has fallen forward and it really fucking has to hurt.

“We’ve got to get him down,” Sam says. Which is pointless. Dean thinks it’s the sort of thing you say to someone who’s in shock, to get them moving…

Oh.

That would be him.

He moves. Puts his flashlight down where it will light them a little without having to be held.

There are packing crates. He kicks one into position and steps up onto it. Sees that what’s holding the drab, soot-black shape of Cas’s left wing in place is a goddamn angel’s blade. One of the fancy ones. An archangel’s?

“Please… please hurry, Dean,” Castiel says. Dean hadn’t realised he was even conscious. “It is an effort… not to hurt you… must keep my wings… mundane…”

“Shh,” Sam says, from atop the next crate over, “don’t try to talk now.” As Dean watches, his brother wraps his arms around Cas’s waist and lifts, taking some of the strain off his injured wings. At this, Cas sighs and then whimpers. “All right, Dean, now ideally you pull that thing free of the wall but leave it in his wing until I can see how much it’s going to bleed, but just do what you can.”

So Dean grabs the angel-blade by the hilt and tugs. Nothing happens, so he tugs harder. Then lifts his knee up against the wall and tugs still harder. “It’s like pulling the fucking sword from the stone. Only I’m not fucking Arthur.”

“I should hope not,” Cas says, in that particular tone of his that means he might be making a joke but you’ll never prove it.

“Maybe we should get him some help, call Balth—”

Dean glares at Sam. Has he gone completely insane? “Angels did this, Sammy. _Angels_. So we aren’t calling no fucking angel dicks to help with this.” And just for emphasis, he gives the blade another tug.

And hits the very solid, very dirty floor damn hard when it comes free and he overbalances.

“Forget it,” Sam says, strain evident in his voice now that he’s taking more of Castiel’s weight. “Just get over here.”

Dean moves his crate over next to Sammy’s, clambers up. Turns out removing the sword from the stone is easier once you already know you can do it. That, or the angel-dick who stuck this one in was less strong or less angry. Dean drops the bloody blade in a hurry, turns to help Sam lower Cas to sit on a crate. His head thunks back against the wall, but he looks reasonably secure there. Dean and Sam take a wing each, examining the wounds. The things are huge, stretching out beyond the pool of light from their flashlights so that their ends seem lost in infinity.

“The bleeding’s not too bad,” Dean says, hearing the relief in his own voice. He feels around the wound, hears Cas hiss in pain. “No bones broken, I think. At least, not here.”

“Not over here either,” Sam says. “It’s pretty much just through the muscle. We need to apply pressure—” he’s already produced cloth they can use from his bag “—but the rest can wait until we’re somewhere safer and more hygienic.”

They take an arm each and support Cas out to the car. It’s slow going, but Cas is able to walk with their support.

Dean climbs into the back seat with Cas without a second thought, helping Sam work the enormous wings into the confined space, trying to arrange things so he can keep the pressure on. They basically have to lie down to make it work, and Castiel feels damp and hot, too hot, against him. He’s panting.

“Keys,” Sam says, and, damn it, should have thought of that first. It’s a pain in the ass getting to his pocket without jostling Cas in a painful way. But Dean manages. He’s a real hero like that. Then it’s the car ride, and he tries his best to cushion Castiel against the centrifugal force or whatever it is when they slow or speed or take a corner, to hold him in place so he doesn’t bash a damaged wing unexpectedly into a seat or window.

It’s late, and Dean only hopes that and the darkness will keep anyone from seeing them dragging a now unconscious winged man into their room. That would probably take some explaining.

“I guess we should angel-ward the place,” Dean says. “Motel manager will _love_ that.”

Sam shakes his head, already going through their stuff for the first aid kit. “Nah, I got out one of those extra strength hex bags. That should do it for now. Besides if they’d wanted him dead...”

“Oh, I think they wanted him dead, Sammy.” He’s surprised at the bitterness in his tone. “Just not quickly. They’re real humane types, those angels.”

Watching Sam get sterile and start putting stitches in Castiel’s flesh is somehow about a thousand times more disturbing than it’s ever been watching Sam stitch up himself or Dean. There’s just something _wrong_ about angel flesh, this thing literally made in Heaven, being sewn back together like so much meat.

They have to push the beds together so there’s support for Castiel’s wings once they’ve lain him out on his stomach. The room boasts a single armchair, so Dean points Sammy at that and seats himself on the floor beside Cas’s head. He wouldn’t sleep again tonight, anyway, and if he did he’s sure the dreams would make it not worth the effort.

***

Castiel wakes screaming at around noon, and just about falls off the bed in his scramble to get away from something that isn’t there.

“Hey,” Dean says, and clicks his fingers for attention. “Cas? Castiel?”

Cas’s head lifts, and dazed, uncomprehending blue eyes blink at him.

“Hi, Cas,” Dean murmurs, trying to make his voice soothing. “It’s just me, and you’re safe. Nothing’s gonna hurt you. I promise.”

Castiel’s frown gradually clears. “Dean. You came for me.” His voice is all wonder and gratitude.

Dean tries to shrug and smile and wave it away all at once, and isn’t very successful. “Of course I did,” he goes with, in the end. “And Sam. Sam helped. He’s gone for supplies. Do you need anything?”

“Coffee. From Ireland. Bobby tells me it’s an excellent prescription for almost any ailment.”

Dean laughs, feeling some of his tension leach out with the sound. “I’ll call Sam about the coffee. But—” he reaches for the nearest bottle “—we can get started on the Irish part right away.”

Cas doesn’t smile, but his pained expression softens, and there seems to be more colour in his cheeks. Dean helps him to sit up, and he seems steady enough. So they both sit on the edge of the bed, passing the bottle back and forth. Dean makes sure Cas gets the lion’s share.

***

Cas is feeling strong enough by the evening to explain about the wings. He won’t talk about what happened, who hurt him, but he does clarify what’s going on with the wings. Well, he tries, anyway.

“Hang on,” Sam says. “Didn’t you say the wings live in a pocket dimension while you’re walking around in a vessel?”

“That is the most convenient way in which I can explain, yes.”

“So how did—whoever—get them visible and tangible so they could do what they did?”

Castiel frowns. “Is that important?”

Sam waves a hand in one of his vague gestures. “I’m just trying to understand, man.”

“Magic was involved,” Cas offers, a clear compromise. “The injury was such that I could not escape from my predicament without first healing my wings, and could not heal my wings until I escaped my predicament. You two proved… most useful, and I thank you.”

“And now?” Dean prods. “Can you heal the wings now?”

“I am doing so. Slowly. I must reserve a portion of my Grace to maintain the shields which prevent the sight of my wings from damaging humans.”

“Okay,” Dean says, practically, he thinks, “so what if we went away? Then could you drop your shields or whatever and just zap everything better?”

“Not without doing Jimmy Novak a great injury I’m not confident I could fix promptly. And until the wings heal enough for me to tuck them away, I cannot leave the vessel, either.”

“Huh.” Dean sighs. “So, basically, everything will get better, we just need to be patient and not get slaughtered in our sleep for a while longer.”

Castiel nods unhappily. Dean supposes he’s not looking forward to days—weeks?—longer in pain. And to living life at what he considers the tediously slow pace of puny Earthlings.

“Hey,” Sam puts in, “I got us the room next door, as well. Told them it turns out my big brother snores. There’s a bigger bed in there, might suit Cas better.”

“I’m not leaving him,” Dean insists.

“Figured, you big romantic.”

“Bitch.”

“Jerk.”

***

So he ends up in a different crappy motel room watching Castiel try to get comfortable on a different bed. On the plus side, he has the pillows and bedding from his old bed next door, and that makes the floor really not such a bad resting place.

“Dean?”

“Go to sleep, Cas.”

“I was unconscious earlier. Angels don’t sleep, Dean.”

_Oh. Right._ “Well, humans do. Must, in fact.”

“Yes. Perhaps you should be up here on the bed. I can sit or stand comfortably.”

“Maybe so.” Dean yawns. “But I’d be happier knowing you weren’t expending energy on that kind of thing that ought to go on healing.”

A pause that seems to crackle faintly. “In that case, I will remain here. And you should feel free to join me, if you can tolerate a wing lying across your body.”

“You’re going to take me under your wing?” Dean murmurs, amused.

Castiel’s feathers rustle like they’re amused, too.

It’s only when Dean is actually lying on the edge of the big bed, warm under his blanket, with the surprisingly slight weight of an enormous wing across his chest, that it occurs to him that they could have topped-and-tailed.

“You should sleep,” Cas whispers. “Goodnight, Dean.” His fingertips touch Dean’s forehead, and he’s asleep before they slip away.

***

Dean dreams of a vineyard, but he’s not tending the vines, he’s just walking among them, thinking how awesome they’d be for hide-and-go-seek. He looks down to see if he’s eight again or something, but, no, still full-sized Dean Winchester in no-name jeans with a gun on his hip. He reaches a dead-end, and has to duck down between two vines—

—he’s heading downhill towards a dock, where there is a chair and fishing gear and one angel of the Lord waiting for him.

Castiel smiles.

They fish.

Well, they drop their hooks in the water and wait. And wait. And wait. But it’s still fishing, even if you don’t catch anything, his dad taught him. Perhaps _especially_ when you don’t catch anything. Journey, boys, not destination. A destination’s just a place, and any idiot can go to a _place_.

***

Dean wakes with his head full of dreams, as if he’d been blessed with a year’s worth last night. Feathers brush the back of his hand, and when he turns his head he can just make out the shape of Castiel, propped up on his elbows, watching him.

_This could be creepy_ , Dean thinks. And then, _why_ isn’t _this creepy?_

“Good morning,” Cas says. “I appreciated your company last night.”

Dean blinks. “You mean, in my dreams?”

Cas nods. “It pleases me that you would permit me to remain so long.”

“I had a choice?”

“I would have left at any sign you were unhappy with my presence. And I would have been _forced_ to leave had you merely wished me gone. We are not welcome in humans’ dreams without their consent.”

“Good to know.”

Dean spends the day trying to amuse an angel. Fortunately, he likes a challenge.

***

Dean wakes in the early hours to the feel of someone snuggling against him, and the soft brush of feathers against his dangling arm.

“Cas?” His voice is sleep-roughened, croaky. He clears his throat. “You okay?”

“I am somewhat improved. I’ve been able to retract my right wing.”

Okay. That would explain how the guy could be comfortably lying on his side, which he’s definitely doing. He has one arm over Dean’s waist, and it’s very, very odd. Cas is usually so distant, physically remote and untouchable even when he’s _right there_ beside you. “Good. That’s great. And then you just kinda needed a cuddle?”

Castiel makes an odd, strangled sound that might be an attempt at laughter from someone who’s never laughed before. “I feel strange. You’re warm.”

Which is about when Dean notices that angel-boy is trembling. He lifts a hand, feels around until he finds Cas’s cheek, uses it as a landmark to find his forehead in the dark. It’s clammy. Hoo-boy, feverish angel. “Cas? Think it’s possible you could have an infection?”

Feathers rustle as Cas shifts. He seems to be trying to tuck his head under Dean’s arm. Dean cooperates, quickest way to stop him fussing.

“Infection?” Cas repeats, as if it’s a word that tastes odd. “No, I don’t think so. I have sufficient Grace left.” He yawns. “I don’t think it’s that.”

Dean wonders if maybe it’s some endorphin-rush thing, from the sudden reduction in pain when he was able to retract the wing? Perhaps he should get Sam in here to consult. But, really, what are they gonna _do_ either way? It’s not like they can take a one-winged angel to a hospital. They could steal some antibiotic pills, but who knows how they’d react with Grace or whatever? Might be just as risky as doing nothing. So he just lies there, and, yeah, with Cas’s head where it is he’s basically _holding_ Cas, which is weird. He’s been in bed with guys before, yeah, once or twice, but it was for sex, not cuddling. This is kinda nice, though. Makes him feel trusted. And Cas’s hair is soft against his fingers, and Cas’s feathers, too… So Dean just sorta dozes and pets and smiles in the dark when the angel utters a soft noise of pleasure. It’s soothing to soothe someone, Dean decides.

***

Cas is a very grumpy and lopsided angel in the morning, and Dean’s hard-pressed not to mock him on more than one occasion. He looks a lot better, though. The fever seems to have vanished overnight, and the wound on the remaining wing looks like it’s healing up well. So well that Cas makes him take the stitches out, much against Dean’s better judgement. For an angel, he sure does playground bully a lot better than he does sweetness and light.

“Thank you,” Castiel says afterwards, though, in that soft gravel voice. And then he smiles a little, a small down payment on a grin. “Perhaps we could watch the television now?”

“Really? Okay, sure.”

So they sit side by side on the bed and watch daytime soaps. Cas has no idea what’s going on with any of the storylines, of course, and some of his questions and suppositions are hilarious. At one point Sam comes in to glare suspiciously at them, as if he suspects all the laughter is the result of weed-smoking or something. The thought of a mellow Cas with the munchies is enough to send Dean into fresh gales of laughter, of course.

***

Cas is well enough by the next day to retract his second wing and disappear back off to Heaven, much against their protests. Dean has a repeated lurching sensation in his stomach whenever he thinks about Cas being back in the company of whatever bastards pinned him to that wall. Finishing up their case is a good distraction. There are demons involved and it feels fucking fantastic to kick some evil butt. Dean tires himself out enough that he doesn’t need much of their latest bottle of Hunter’s Helper to fall asleep that night, still in the big bed chosen to accommodate Castiel’s damaged wings.

In his dreams, he watches an eagle soar, only it turns out to be Cas, grinning.

He wakes in the dark to the feel of a warm body beside him and an arm rather than a feathery weight across his chest. Castiel has returned and crawled into bed with him. Dean doesn’t comment, doesn’t ask what happened up in angel-land and how badly it sucked, just holds Cas to him and slips back into dreams.

When they fire up the Impala the next morning, Cas slides into the back seat without a word. Dean figures he’s along for the ride, maybe just for today, maybe forever, and he’s okay with that. Dean, Sammy, and Cas, on the road again. Fuck Heaven. This is paradise enough.

***END***


End file.
